Goodbye
by werecatrocks
Summary: A series of one-shots based on a prompt from a friend-"goodbye".
1. Forlorn

The day the swede and the finn left, Denmark flew into a rage. The king of Scandinavia smashed plates and slammed doors before finally falling into the chair at his desk and resting his head in his hands. The only thing keeping him from slamming his head into the table was the quiet reassurance that Norway and Iceland were there, Norway and Iceland wouldn't leave him.

"C'mon Norge, we can work this out!" The wild-haired man stepped in front of the shorter one, persistently getting in the way. He had walked in on Norway packing a bag, Iceland's already packed and by the door. The norwegian gave him a look and opened his mouth to speak, but the dane was already babbling, words spilling out in his rush to intercept Norway.  
"Don't leave! What do you need? New clothes? More independance? I can get you a pet-"

"Move. You're in my way." With these curt words, Norway stepped past Denmark through the doorway and into the hall, sparing only a glance at the distraught nation. Denmark stared after him, slack-jawed and stunned into silence.

After he had gotten his bearings back, he ran into the hall and looked down both no one, he took off towards the front door, calling out loudly.  
"Norway! Iceland!" With each moment without the answering shout calling him annoying or Iceland's puffin squawking about being woken up, he became increasingly desperate. He opened the front door hard enough to slam it into the wall beside it and shouted at the trees, racing and searching and screaming for them not to leave, he didn't want to be alone again, his house was too big and empty without them-

He only returned home once his voice had become hoarse and his steps shaky from exhaustion. His heavy footsteps were too loud in his house. The hallways were dark and dimly lit. Norway always had been the one who turned on the lights at night. Iceland used to scared of the dark when he was younger, and the habit had stuck. Suddenly it all sank in, that there would be no more Finland making coffee in the morning, no more puffin flying through the house with whatever pen or bag of licorice he managed to steal from Iceland, no Sweden to glare at him over his book, no Norway to call him annoying and send him away. It felt like the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders, and maybe it had. His knees gave out and he sank to the ground and cried.

It was only what seemed like hours later that the cold air from the open door caught his attention, and he dragged himself to his feet and to the door. He stared into the softly falling snow before shutting it, probably more forcefully than he needed too.

Traitors. The lot of them.

At least that's what he told himself.


	2. Wistful

No...not yet. I promised I'd come back!

"No…" Little more than a breath, the quiet rasp of a young boy, with eyes so blue and clear that they reflected the sky. It was too sunny for this, too nice. Fluffy clouds drifted across the sky. Too peaceful for bloodshed. Too peaceful for death.

He was dying. He knew it. No nation lasts forever, but he had thought he'd get to grow up. Thought he'd get to see her again, before his time would come. But his world was a cruel, warlike one. It seeks to crush innocence and hope wherever it hides it. Happiness persists in small pockets, before it is stamped out.

But it keeps coming back. The boy laughed, a wet, wheezing sound that sounded too hollow, sounded too flat. It keeps coming back for the people that never bowed to despair, never gave in, even when taken from their homes by sickness or injuries or death. Those people should be the ones the world is given too, he thought. Not the ones that spread strife and anger and hatred.

Like her. Even though she was only a servant, she always had a smile ready. She had loved to paint, and sing, and miss Hungary would dress her up in her clothes sometimes when she had no chores. She never seemed sad, although she would hide and cry when he came to see her. He scared her, he knew this. He didn't try to be scary.

Breathe. In. Out. He felt the rattle in his chest and wondered how long it would take. He had been here for a while now, just him and his thoughts. He struggled to smile, to remember the little servant girl. The details of her face were hard to remember, how long had it been since he'd been home?

He lay back in the grass, and focused on the clouds to try to forget the dull pain at the edge of his senses. He was back home again. He would go home, and Austria would play the piano for him. Hungary would already have dinner ready, his favourite, and the little servant girl would come eat with them. And then they'd go out to the courtyard and she would help him paint, like they used to. Back when things were better.

The boy with the auburn hair and the curl that never stayed down swayed slightly, staring at the man in front of him.

"What do you mean….Holy Rome isn't coming back?"


End file.
